by Mariah Carey
PART III
ALL THAT GLITTERS
FIRECRACKER
“He knows we just did this shit with Mariah … and he’s trying to fuck with Mariah.”
—Irv Gotti
The saga of making Glitter was a collision of bad luck, bad timing, and sabotage.
The soundtrack and film began as All That Glitters, and though I first began to work on the project in 1997, we had to put it on hold for several years so I could fulfill more pressing obligations to Columbia. While I had significant creative control over the soundtrack, I had virtually none when it came to the film. The initial concepts I developed for the story were almost entirely rewritten. I started working on the script with my acting coach and Kate Lanier, who had written What’s Love Got to Do with It. She’s such a talented and gifted writer, and I really trusted her. But every day we kept getting more and more studio notes.
Tommy could not give up control, especially now that I was doing what I had always dreamed of and he had always feared: acting. Glitter was being produced by Columbia Pictures, which was owned by Sony, which connected it to Tommy. The chair of Columbia Pictures at the time referred to him while we worked as “the white elephant in the room”—that silent, invisible force we could not discuss. Anything that might have pushed the envelope, that would have made it an R-rated or even PG-13–rated movie, was swiftly vetoed. Nothing could be too real, too edgy, too sexy, or too down-to-earth. There was a much grittier script to be had (come on, it took place in the eighties!), but we ended up with something very bubblegum.
As a result of continual back-and-forth and Tommy’s stifling control, we had script changes every day. No one knew what was happening from moment to moment. In addition to a vastly different script, I had also wanted Terrence Howard in the lead (I envisioned him in this kind of role before Hustle and Flow, mind you). But the powers that be were dismissive of the idea of a romance between Terrence and me. I suspected it was because he looks Blacker than me (though he is also mixed!) and they didn’t understand how that was going to work, if you catch my drift. So that was disappointing. No shade to Max Beesley, who was great.
In addition to a lack of creative control, I felt my acting was really inhibited for many reasons by the acting coach, who by this time I believe had become too invested in my career. I don’t want to slay her, but she prevented me from doing my best by projecting her own personal shit onto the movie. I’ve heard this often happens in collaborations; it got very Marilyn and Paula Strasberg–ish. With all due respect, it became an ego fest (I’m sure she would agree with me now). What was important to me was that the extras and other people on set—from actors to crew—knew that I was serious, ready to learn, and ready to work just as hard as them. Though the whole process wasn’t great, I did feel I gave some good performances (which would have been more evident with different edits). I wasn’t upset because it was such a new medium for me, but I think at every turn there were missteps.
But there was light at the end of this glittered tunnel. Frank Sinatra once said Dani Janssen was one of Hollywood’s “original broads,” and I love a good broad, especially one who knows how to throw a good party. Dani Diamonds’s (as she was famously called) Oscar parties are legendary—and I do not throw the L word around haphazardly. Most guests either have to have an Oscar or have been nominated for one in order to be invited. Her regulars are all legends—Sidney Poitier, John Travolta, Quincy Jones, Oprah, Babs (Barbra Streisand), and on and on. And each year a hot new crop of fresh Oscar winners mingle with icons amid her massive collection of white orchids. One year, I was fortunate enough to receive a surprising and very special invitation (naturally, Dani and I hit it off famously). One of the hottest leading men at the time, a two-time Academy Award winner (Dani’s code of no “networking” or name-dropping is taken very seriously, so he shall remain anonymous), came up to me and said about my work in Glitter, “I know people give you shit about it. I’ve been there. You were really hitting some things that were very genuine, and I think you should stick with that. Don’t let them make you feel like you can’t go there anymore.” He made me feel so much better because of the immense respect I have for him as an actor. And it was a good thing I didn’t give up—because a few years later something truly “precious” would come my way.
Much of what went wrong with Glitter led back to Tommy. He was angry about the divorce and my departure from Sony, and he used all his power and connections to punish me. And everybody else around me knew it was happening, including my new label. Tommy and his cronies went as far as taking promotional items, like my stand-up advertisements, out of the record stores. It was a real fight. He didn’t want it to look like I could succeed on my own, without him, so he even interfered with the Glitter soundtrack. I worked on it for a long time with people like Eric Benét and Brat, who were both in the movie. Terry Lewis was able to get us the original music for “I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On,” since he and Jimmy Jam produced it, of course! And having Rick James (who required a white suit, a white limo, and perhaps some other white accouterments for his session) on “All My Life” was priceless.
The whole experience felt like a dream. And in many ways, it was exactly what I had dreamed of for so many years. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying Glitter was Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or something, but I don’t think it deserved what it got. I think it could have been good had it been allowed to be executed as originally conceived, but by the end, it was such a fight just to have it happen at all. But as always, I kept the faith. I told myself, Everything’s going to work out. I went to that place of hope. This is hard right now, I told myself, it’s a struggle, but I’ll make it through, no matter what. And I was stronger than ever on the other side. And though darkness followed, it was in that darkness that I learned to build my own light.
* * *
Tommy was furious when I cut the strings he used to manipulate me. There was no way he would allow me to have a huge success after leaving him and Sony. He was not going to let me or Glitter shine; rather, he was intent on stamping us out. He wouldn’t have been satisfied unless I absolutely failed. He used to always say, “You do what you do, and then I do my magic.” He would have me destroyed before I exposed that he was no magician. If the Glitter soundtrack had been a monster hit, he would have had to face the fact that he was not omnipotent, he was not indispensable, he did not single-handedly make Mariah Carey. To add to his fury, he knew I’d just negotiated the largest cash record deal to date (and my family knew, too, but more on that later). And on top of it, I was making a movie, something he forbade when we were together, and that meant my career was expanding, which made him feel like he was shrinking. He had already been publicly humiliated when I left him, but for me to be successful without him too? That was too much for his fragile ego to withstand. What would it mean for his whole empire to be based on intimidation? What would it mean to other artists if I made it without him? I fully believed he was committed to me not having a life he didn’t control. That he wouldn’t be happy until I was buried in the ground.
I escaped a man and marriage that nearly smothered me to death. I was one of several artists who called Tommy and his flunkies out for working against the best interest of the company because of petty personal vendettas.
Meanwhile over at the new label, all hell was breaking loose because “Loverboy,” the first single off the Glitter soundtrack, was only at number two on the charts, not number one. I didn’t understand the panic around a number two single on a soundtrack for a film that wasn’t even released yet. But suffice it to say, on the heels of filming Glitter, my life and work were once again under tremendous scrutiny and pressure.
And then there was the sabotage. I had written the lyrics to “Loverboy”; the melody was tight, and it had an infectious groove. Super producer Clark Kent and I had chosen “Firecracker,” by Yellow Magic Orchestra, as the sample, and the few insiders working on the film’s production were really loving it. That did not go unnot
iced by Sony executives (and spies). I had chosen the song and paid to have it used in the movie. After hearing my new song, using the same sample I used, Sony rushed to make a single for another female entertainer on their label (whom I don’t know). They used the “Firecracker” sample and released it before “Loverboy.” Ja Rule and I wrote a song together too, and next thing you know, Tommy was calling up his manager Irv Gotti, asking him and Ja to collaborate on a duet for the same female entertainer’s record—leaving me to scurry and remake the song. Irv has even discussed it since, in an interview on Desus & Mero: “He knows we just did this shit with Mariah … and he’s trying to fuck with Mariah.” This was sabotage, plain and simple.
Look, I was well trained in the art of turning shit situations into fertilizer, but Tommy knew fucking with my artistic choices was particularly low. But I wouldn’t let him stop me. I switched gears and turned from the techno influence to a funkier sample from “Candy,” by Cameo (you can’t go wrong with Cameo), and Clark Kent produced it again. After we were both robbed, he saved the day with a banging track (using some remnants from “Firecracker,” which is my favorite part of the song). Da Brat pretty much said it all in her blistering and very real rap on the remix to “Loverboy.”
Hate on me as much as you want to
You can’t do what the fuck I do
Bitches be emulating me daily
Hate on me as much as you want to
You can’t be who the fuck I be
Bitches be imitating me baby
—“Loverboy (Remix)”
We even featured Larry Blackmon (in cornrows) in a poppy sexy-kitschy video shot by my good friend, the fabulous David LaChapelle. And we had a good time despite it all.
But the good times were about to turn real bad.
RESTING IN PIECES
After leaving Tommy I lived in hotels and on the road before I was finally able to make a home for myself. I came very close to buying Barbra Streisand’s exquisite, palatial Central Park West penthouse in an impressive Art Deco building. She famously has a passion for design; her home was decorated with impeccable taste that was totally compatible with what I loved. After all I went through to build Sing Sing it would have been a relief to have a gorgeous turnkey home. But alas, the conservative co-op board was afraid there would be too many rappers, and their entourages, aka big black men, milling about, and didn’t approve me. I eventually found a perfect building downtown, in Tribeca, and moved into the kind of home I dreamed of as a child. Having my own glamorous, gigantic New York City penthouse apartment was exciting but also totally disorienting. I was finally in my own space, but I often didn’t know where any of my stuff was or where it was supposed to be yet. And I had no time to get my new place in order because I was working nonstop. I had a reputation in the industry for being a beast when it came to productivity. I went hard in the studio, and I went equally hard promoting and marketing. I was an all-in artist, and everyone I worked with knew it.
Having a new project on a new label was taking all I had, and I was giving as much as I could. There were all these new people at the label, and my personal management team wasn’t properly restructured to accommodate the new demands. And quite honestly, all the change and new, higher stakes overwhelmed them. My schedule was brutal. I would have a shoot or an event until 3:00 a.m., then a 5:00 a.m. press call. It was relentless. Nowhere in my itinerary was there R-E-S-T, and at the time I didn’t know how to demand it. When you’re working like a machine, there has to be human care built into the process: nutritious food, bodywork, vocal rest, but most importantly, sleep. (I knew this, even if the notion of “self-care” was a decade away.)
Of course, the timing of the soundtrack’s release couldn’t have been worse—something no one could have foreseen. People didn’t go see the movie. I still believe Glitter was ahead of its time. People may not have been ready to deal with the eighties in the early 2000s, but I knew it was going to be a thing. And then it was! And I still love that soundtrack. I am so glad and so grateful that almost two decades later, the Lambs and I got #JusticeForGlitter, making it go to number one in 2018. I’m also glad I get to perform those songs now. The fans gave Glitter new shine, new dazzle—the life it deserved.
It was late in the summer of 2001. The few critics who were able to preview the Glitter movie almost unanimously panned it. The anxiety caused by its bad reception, and the label’s reaction to the single only hitting number two, was seeping into my psyche. Honestly, the only other artist I’ve seen under so much pressure to perform above and beyond their own phenomenal success was Michael Jackson. Like him, I was also used to having unquestionable smashes. It was my idea to make a whole-ass album called #1’s! But still, number two on a new label, on a soundtrack (not a studio album) didn’t seem so tragic, if you ask me.
And still the stress was mounting. It didn’t seem like the label had a strong promotional strategy, and I didn’t have a coordinated management team in place yet. I didn’t see anyone around me taking control of what was becoming the “single situation.” Worry seemed to outweigh planning and problem solving; internally the project was looking a mess. So my creative survival instincts kicked in. I felt like I had to do something—somebody had to do something.
High anxiety made what little sleep was allotted for in my schedule nearly impossible. I couldn’t get to sleep. I couldn’t find my things. I couldn’t seem to get anyone to pull it together.
So I made my own move. Admittedly, it was too late and a bit messy, but it was some kind of action. I concocted a last-minute little publicity stunt to garner excitement for “Loverboy”: I staged a “crash” of TRL on MTV.
In keeping with the vibe of the video and the audience, I thought it would be festive to have a little nostalgic summer moment. Running on pure panic and excitement, I showed up on set with a spunky ponytail, pushing an ice-cream cart full of Popsicles and wearing an oversized airbrushed “Loverboy” T-shirt with a surprise underneath: an eighties Glitter look. It was an innocent and silly stunt and highly unrehearsed. I very much freestyled my dialogue, as I tend to do, and I was hoping Carson Daly could play off of me, riff, and involve the audience (as one would expect a host to do). But he didn’t play along. (I know he was probably told to act surprised, but he didn’t act at all.)
I realized I was living in the moment all by myself. So I thought, Okay, let me pull out a little costume trick to get the energy going. I awkwardly removed the T-shirt to reveal gold sparkly hot pants and a “Supergirl” tank top. But in response, Carson, acting all aghast, said, “Mariah Carey is stripping on TRL right now!” (Oh, now he decides to act.) I certainly was not stripping—I was revealing. Granted, my performance was a bit sloppy, and came off as silly. But instead of ad-libbing, Carson was looking at me like I was crazy. My adrenaline was dialed up to 1,000, and Carson asked me, “What are you doing?” Really?!
I nervously answered, “Every now and then, somebody needs a little therapy, and today is that moment for me.”
The truth is, my fans are a part of my therapy. Some people have retail therapy, some have chocolate therapy; I have fan therapy. I have always gone directly to my fans for energy and inspiration. I established an independent relationship with my fans before social media was even created. I used my website to personally talk to them; I would leave voice messages for them and tell them what I was doing and how I was honestly feeling.
It was unfiltered, how I communicated with my fans, and how we communicated with each other. So when I made that infamous call to my fans, while freaked out and feeling alone on a boat in Puerto Rico, leaving a sad message saying I was taking a break—they understood. The way it was reported in the press was as if I had a meltdown and made a desperate, random call. Back then, people didn’t understand, and wondered why I talked directly to my fans. The media had no concept of the bond I had with my fans. None.
My fans care, and they take note of everything I do and make it their own. The press didn’t understand how the fan
s named themselves “Lambs.” The fans paid attention to when Trey Lorenz and I would go into our old-Hollywood affectation and say things like, “Be a lamb and fetch me a splash of wine.” We would call each other “lamb” as a term of endearment all the time—and that’s how the Lambs (the deeply devoted fans) were born! Now we are Lambily! My fans saved my life and continue to give me life every day. So honestly, I don’t give a fuck if publicists or press thought I was crazy for bringing Popsicles or making phone calls to my fans. The Lambs are everything, and every song, every show, every video, every post, every festive moment, everything I do as an artist is for them.
TRL. Was. A. Stunt. Gone. Awry. And let’s be clear and logical, there’s no way I, Mariah Carey, or anyone could actually crash any MTV show, with an ice-cream cart no less. Maybe Carson Daly didn’t know I was coming, but producers had to schedule my appearance—coordinators, publicists, security, whole-ass teams of people knew I was coming. It was a stunt. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Any idea was good at that time. I was like a stand-up comic who bombed a set. All performers bomb, but my bombing set off a chain reaction that placed a target on my back. The tabloids and the celebrity press at large acted like I’d actually stripped butt naked and given Carson a lap dance on live TV (which is now a mundane routine often performed by reality TV stars and rappers—oh, how the standards have changed)!
The press devoured my silly TRL stunt and me right along with it. It was the first time I had experienced the phenomenon of a public fail that woke the monster in the media, that vicious vampire that gains its strength by feeding on the weaknesses of the vulnerable. The bombed stunt mushroomed into a big, nasty, never-ending story. Some mainstream media is a glutton for negative energy and fear. It places a mask over pain and presents it as entertainment news. It was visible, and I was vulnerable. And when the Cinderella of Sony took a fall, no king’s horses or men tried to set the record straight, pick me up, or put me back together again. Rather, they fed on the spectacle and just wanted more—more stumbles, more embarrassment, more breaks, more ridicule. The monster in the media is only satisfied when you are destroyed.